


All Kinds of Fun

by Skalidra



Category: DCU (Comics), Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Game of Thrones Fusion, Captivity, Dothraki, F/M, M/M, Non-Sexual Bondage, Not Canon Compliant, Open Marriage, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2021-01-03 23:05:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21187475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: In the chaos of the slaughter, there’s a man. He moves with skill and grace that his allies lack, the sword in his hand spraying blood across the grass with each landed strike as he cuts a path through Slade’s men, in contrast to the swiftly dying fight in all the rest of them. He shouts something lost to the din, but the message is clear enough.Come and get me.Slade grins, and obliges.





	All Kinds of Fun

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome! This is the first of the fics I've got for the 2019 SladeRobin week; enjoy! We're starting out with a GoT-fusion SladeJay with Dothraki!Slade. A note for those wondering, it turns out that apparently getting to commit lots of murder and have a somewhat open relationship does wonder for Adeline and Slade, so while I'm not going to call them healthy, they are very much still together.
> 
> [You can find my Tumblr here!](http://skalidra.tumblr.com/)

The boy makes him bleed, but that’s not what first gets Slade’s attention..

It’s a simple battle; his horde against a smaller force summoned forth to meet him on the plains, trying to drive them away from the grass and the livestock that roam freely here, bountiful in ways their more common territories have ceased to be. The scouts tell them everything they need to know, and it only takes a day to close the distance before they can set up any real defenses.

No army can stand against a charge of his riders, not without trickery or traps, and it’s been a long time since Slade chose any battle that didn’t favor his men. This one’s no different.

In the chaos of the slaughter, there’s a man. He moves with skill and grace that his allies lack, the sword in his hand spraying blood across the grass with each landed strike as he cuts a path through Slade’s men, in contrast to the swiftly dying fight in all the rest of them. The oddity draws his eye, in time to see the red-helmeted man duck low under the swing of a curved blade and spin with the movement, his straighter steel cutting the legs of the horse out from under rider and beast both.

Slade watches, and as if drawn by his gaze the man lifts his head and looks at him, not a glance spared for the screaming horse, or the rider pinned beneath its bulk. For a moment, through the chaos and the frenzied movement of the battle, their eyes meet. It’s a still moment, a quiet moment where nothing else matters, and then the man jerks a hand to his chest. He shouts something lost to the din, but the message is clear enough.

_Come and get me_.

Slade grins, and obliges.

His horse turns at the urging of his knees, rearing high and screaming a challenge loud enough to clear the space ahead of him. His men draw out of the way with ease, his enemies stagger, and a path opens up between him and the skilled man. He’s on foot, inviting a charge, but Slade’s not interested in being as easily downed as the last man to try that.

Instead, he urges his mount through the gap created at a slower pace, letting his arrival be a thing of anticipation. His men enforce the cleared space, widening it to give no chance of any stray blade reaching far enough to catch him. He dismounts at the edge of the circle his men have pressed into existence, running the fingers of his free hand over the blood-slickened neck of his horse as he steps away from it to soothe any disquiet it might feel at the change.

The clash of battle still sings outside the circle, but it grows quieter with every passing moment, and Slade lets it. He takes his time, studying the man as he stands opposite him, blade loose by his side. He’s tall, though he doesn’t match Slade’s height. Leather armor weighing him down, cloth trapping the heat against his skin; a city-born, not a native to the plains. He holds the blade comfortably in one hand, though, with more familiarity than most not born to steel and beast do.

Slade moves first.

The man meets him without fear, teeth flashing below the covering of his helmet as they clash, and Slade presses the advantage of his height and strength to force him back. He gives ground, but not too much.

Still, it doesn’t last long. Enough that his men grow invested in the victory of their Khal, and enough to raise sweat across his shoulders and set his blood to singing. The man isn’t his match, but he puts up more fight than anyone Slade’s had the pleasure of fighting in years, and each shallow groove sliced into armor or through to the skin beneath feels a well-earned victory. Then one slice of his blade knocks the helmet from the man’s head — carving a deep gash into the leather, though it does protect the skull beneath it — and the moment of shock and diversion is enough to twist the sword from his hands with an easy hook of Slade’s own blade.

Narrowed blue-green eyes meet his, before Slade rams the hilt of his blade into his jaw and staggers him once more.

Slade’s slammed him to the ground, dropped to press a knee over his throat and capture both wrists in his free hand to pin them against the man’s chest — to the cheers of those warriors around them not focused on the enemies that are yet breathing — when he notices the trail of blood winding its way down his forearm. The man thrashes in his grip, boots scraping through dirt and grass, but Slade ignores it in favor of tilting his arm enough to follow the blood to its source.

A long, curving line along the outside of his bicep and shoulder, clearly inflicted by a blade, if relatively shallow. He doesn’t remember receiving it, but his every instinct says the man pinned beneath him is the one to whom it belongs. It wasn't there before their battle; of that he's sure.

It’s been a long, long time since a blade scored his skin. No one's matched him in battle since his youth, and only a rare few since have succeeded in making him bleed, excluding his Khaleesi, of course. It's almost refreshing to know there are still men left in this world that pose some challenge, however small.

He almost laughs. A city-born soldier, of all people. He would have expected the challenge to come from another Khal, or at least a member of the mercenary bands that flit from city to city, without even a shred of loyalty between them. They're always a good fight for his men, at least.

Slade lets his arm fall back to more natural positioning, lowering his gaze back to the man pinned beneath him. Though, on a longer look, 'boy' would be a more apt description. He's big, yes, and tall, but young. Eyes alight with wild fury, teeth bared in a snarl that threatens to bite anything that comes near it. Not so different from a wild stallion, pinned beneath rope but still dangerous, if its captor's attention slips for even a moment. There's no fear for the blade held above him, not where it hovers, and not when Slade lowers it to fit the curve over his throat, just above the weight of his knee. The boy stills, but his gaze doesn't lower or break. Respect for the steel at his throat, but no fear of death.

That takes courage.

Slade pulls the blade away as he makes his decision, hooking it back at his belt to free his hand. He reaches for his wounded arm, dragging fingers through the trail of blood to gather it on his fingers, before he lowers them towards the boy's face. Confusion snaps once again into threat, but an upwards shift of Slade's knee forces his chin up and his head back against the ground, leaving very little room for him to try and pull away.

The boy spits something strangled and incomprehensible, protesting the touch of Slade's fingers to his cheek with a violent jerk. Not enough to stop the painting of the sharp-lined 'S' on his skin, a blatant claim to any warrior that thinks of messing with the prize he's chosen. Supplies and weapons they'll share, but a claimed prize is his and his alone, unless he decides to allow another's touch.

Only a few have ever dared to try and take from him, and not one still lives. No member of his horde is stupid enough, now.

Besides, most of them think only of women. It's a rarer man that appreciates the different pleasures to be found in both sexes; a boy warrior is of interest to him, but probably few others.

It doesn't stop the circle of his men from laughing and cheering, sharing in the excitement of his victory. It's as much selfishness as loyalty; taking his prize here means he won't claim one of theirs later, or scour whatever riches are found with too much concentration. They'll be pleased he's found something to occupy his attention.

Slade twists enough to beckon his horse to him, backing the command up with a sharp whistle. There's rope enough there to restrain the boy, until they settle in a camp for the night. He has no doubt the boy will fight him, but captives and slaves are hardly new to him. If he can break free of the ropes, and escape the surrounding force of all the warriors and followers without being caught, Slade would be inclined to let him go, anyway. Skill like that should be rewarded.

For now, though, some simple restraints and a gag should serve to transport him.

The boy snarls at him, kept quiet and breathless by the press of Slade's knee across his throat. He chuckles and loops rope around the wrists he's still holding.

Yes, this should be fun.

* * *

The rope’s rough, tight, and has scraped his wrists raw by the time Jason gets dragged off the flank of the horse and into the dirt. He hits the ground hard, the impact knocking the breath out of him in a huff as all his aches come back to life. Not just from the fight — he’s pretty sure he’s mostly stopped bleeding, at least — but from being slung over the damned horse the rest of the day as the horde moved. Arms bound to his chest, calves to his thighs, constantly feeling like he was one bad shift away from toppling off one side or another.

He groans into the dirt, trying to suck in air around the cloth between his teeth; a little gift, when he kept cursing at his captor. The other one is the thick leather wrapped around his neck, bound at the back in some way he couldn't see before it was already done. He can't reach it with his hands bound, and he hasn't been able to make it shift in any other way.

Maybe it's not the sturdier metal he's familiar with, but it's a collar. A damned _collar_. It's as much a mark of ownership as the itch of dried blood on his cheek, and it worries him more than he wants to admit. He doesn't know much of anything about Dothraki slaves, but he knows how the city slaves are treated. He's spent his whole life coming way too close to being one himself.

He hears the low smoothness of his captor's voice, murmuring something in calming tones to someone that’s definitely not him. Probably the fucking horse. Like that beast needs any reassurance; it’s half again the size of any other horse he’s ever seen. Then again, so is its owner.

Jason might know the language, but he doesn’t pretend to understand everything about the culture of the Dothraki. He does know, though, that the long, white braid at the man’s back makes him more dangerous than anyone else around him. He knows what the length of that hair means. Undefeated, in enough years to grow it all the way to his thighs.

He’d thought, maybe, if he could kill the most dangerous man among them, it might win his companions a bit of breathing room. Or at least he’d take something important from them, make them pay at least a little of their spilled blood back.

A little is right. One damned cut, that’s all he managed. The massive, white-haired man was practically toying with him, and then that hand closed around his wrists and there wasn’t anything he could do. He’s exhausted, and sore, and he’s pretty sure he’s the newest slave of what might just be the Khal of this whole horde. Or some kind of human sacrifice or something, maybe?

The horse moves off, and Jason pries his eyes open in just enough time to see the son of a bitch — or a horse, more likely — take the last couple steps towards him and sink down to a knee right in front of his face. He snarls best he can, but the bastard only smirks a bit and grabs him by the rope around his chest, hefting him onto one shoulder with a disturbing lack of any apparent effort. He knew the man was strong — felt it in every swing of that sword, and shove of his weight — but Jason’s also very aware of how much he weighs. Most people have trouble even lifting him off the ground, let alone just tossing him over a shoulder like some kind of sack.

He grunts and squirms, but there’s a powerful arm looped around his waist to hold him in place and he hasn’t got the leverage or enough strength left in him to do anything.

Dirt and grass passes underneath them. Then the man ducks low, cloth brushing over Jason’s back and head, and suddenly they’re inside a tent. It’s dimly lit, in a not much different way than the fading sun outside, but the air tastes faintly of smoke.

He gets set down surprisingly gently, on the overlapping cloth that makes up the floor. His back propped up against a wooden pole that he has to assume is one of the supporting sticks for the whole thing. Pettily, he wonders if he’ll start a fire if he knocks the whole thing down on top of all the little candles and things. Might be worth it.

It’s big enough to let the monster of a man stand at his full height without hitting the ceiling, with cloth and furs to serve as the floor, and a slightly raised section with yet more furs that Jason has to assume is the bed. There’s a metal basin to one side of the ‘room,’ and it’s to there that the man goes, apparently content with leaving him by himself. Jason wishes he could take advantage of that, but even just sitting here he doesn’t have the reach to get his hands or teeth to any of the knots in the rope. What’s he going to do, wiggle out the door?

The drip of water calls his attention, and he watches only because he’s got nothing better to look at as the man soaks a cloth and begins to wipe down his arms and chest. The armor’s gone and he’s not totally sure where, but yeah, okay. No wonder the guy can sling him around; he’s enormous, and his back looks like it’s carved from the kind of smooth marble Jason’s only ever seen from a distance, in the gardens of the rich. His skin glistens under the dampness of the water, and Jason swallows even with barely any wetness in his mouth. The collar pulls tight against his throat.

Was this man even born of a normal mother, or is he the son of some giant, or god? Surely no normal human could be that big, or powerful.

The cloth of the entrance brushes aside, and Jason jerks his head around to find a woman striding in. Brown hair bound loosely back at her shoulders, heat in her gaze, and a blade at her hip that’s a perfect match to the one the white-haired man wore. She pauses briefly in front of him, just long enough to look at and dismiss him before she continues towards the still-turned back of the bastard.

“_Adeline_,” he says before she gets close enough to touch him, and while it’s got the rolling sound of one of their words, Jason doesn’t recognize it. A dialect, or is that the woman’s name?

She snatches the cloth from his hand, leaning down to dip it in the water. “_Slade. I heard you were injured._”

Must be names. She’s Adeline, and he’s… Slade?

Slade snorts, bending his head forward slightly under the shove of one of her hands, as she scrubs the cloth roughly over the back of his neck, and a shoulder. “_A scratch. I’m fine._”

Her hand grabs the arm Jason knows he cut, pulling it up to look at the twisting line of it. Long, but shallow, and already closed. He can see the smeared blood around it from here, but it’s old and dark. He barely did a thing.

Adeline gives an irritated sounding sigh, dropping the arm with a flick of her wrist and returning to wiping down his back. “_So you took the one person in years who’s made you bleed, and decided to keep him?_”

He grunts. "_Yes_."

"_You're still a reckless fool._” She kneels down behind him, high on her knees to reach over his shoulders and dip the cloth back into the water. “_The rest of the men at least had the sense to take manageable prizes; yours is a warrior, not a slave. He won't submit like the rest of those soft city-born._"

Slade catches her arm before it finishes lifting the cloth, twisting chest and head both to turn and face her. “_Since when have I liked submission?_” he asks, a grin curling the edges of his mouth.

Jason can't see her expression from this angle, but Adeline twists her arm, shoves, and Slade's back hits the furs. "_Never_."

Jason gets a sudden, sharp realization about why he might be here. His cheeks go hot.

He makes an automatic, garbled sound of protest as she climbs on top of Slade's hips, inadvertently drawing both their attentions. Not that it stops her from settling there, or Slade's hands from taking her waist what seems like automatically to help her stabilize. But he is suddenly the focus of both sets of eyes, and his cheeks only burn hotter as he presses back against the pole and drags his gaze down to the floor to avoid how they're looking at him. Amused, mostly. At least he really hopes that's it.

Looking away doesn't stop him from hearing, "_Your new toy is shy._" Somehow, Adeline manages to add a scathing edge right next to the amusement.

He can hear the low laugh from Slade perfectly well too. Then, "_He'll get used to our way._”

There's a very sexual sound that Jason doesn't totally want to identify — sort of wet — and a faint grunt from Adeline. "_Or he'll put a knife in you._" She sounds slightly breathless, and Jason turns his head a little further and tries to bury it against his shoulder to keep every hint of what they're probably doing out of his peripheral vision. "_Why is everything you decide you want always dangerous? You're going to get yourself killed one of these days, Slade. I won't mourn you._"

"_I know._”

"_Good._" She groans, lower and breathier._ "Go ahead and have fun with your little biting warrior, then. All it means is that I'll take your seat sooner than I thought I would._"

The answer of, "_I'll be waiting in the Night Lands for all those who underestimate you,_" is only just loud enough for Jason to hear.

It occurs to him — as he’s trying not to listen to more of those clearly sexual sounds, and more than a little belatedly — that they must not know he speaks their language. They don’t think he understands anything that they’re saying; they can’t, right? Everything they've been saying would be strange to say around someone who could understand you, even if you thought of them as a slave. At least, _he _thinks it would be.

Either they're just talking over and around him like he's furniture, they're playing a very weird game with him, or they really don't know he speaks their language.

Well, why _would_ they know? Maybe he got off a curse or two in the language before Slade gagged him, but he's heard those plenty in the markets. He only ever met a very few people, though, who weren't born on the plains but could still speak Dothraki. Not enough to make it real likely you'd meet one randomly in the middle of a battlefield. Why would they assume he could speak it?

That’s good for him, isn’t it? If they don’t know he understands them, maybe they’ll say something he can use. The… closest town, or where there’s weaponry stored, or… _something_. Gods, he might as well hope for that because he definitely hasn’t got any other advantages.

Jason presses his face a little harder against his shoulder and closes his eyes, trying and mostly failing to stop his imagination filling in visuals for all those sounds he’s hearing. There are a few words exchanged, in deeper, rough tones, but nothing beyond encouragement and moaned names. (Oh Gods, they are absolutely having sex _right there_. He can _hear _it.)

There’s a little part of him that wants to look. Just take a glance. Just one. But it’s a part that he can thoroughly pin on the stupid little interested flare in his gut, reacting to the sounds for absolutely no other reason then that he’s a healthy, sexually mature man. It’s automatic, and it’s got nothing to do with how either of them look. Absolutely nothing.

He really wishes he could cover his ears, but he settles for biting his tongue as their pace picks up. The rhythmic slap of skin makes his cheeks burn, and heat pool between his legs. The moans don’t help any, nor the growled grunts or increasingly slick — she sounds so _wet _— tinge to the sound of them coming together.

He’s tasting just a bit of blood when, finally, things ‘end.’ The pain hasn’t been enough to keep his thoughts away from wondering what his captor’s kind of strength brings to sex, but the alternative was biting through his own tongue and that would be a remarkably stupid way to die, after all this.

There’s panting, then the rustle of cloth or maybe fur just a bit later. Jason keeps his head turned away. Maybe they’re ‘done,’ but he’s pretty sure if he looks now he’s still going to get an eyeful that he really doesn’t want.

"_Always nice to remember that you’re actually decent at this,_" he hears Adeline say, somewhat breathless. "_When it happens._"

"_You're the one that stopped coming to bed._" There's a quiet grunt, more exhaled air than anything else. "_Except when you want to prove a point._"

“_Don’t complain; neither of us could stand being in the same bed every night._”

Slade laughs, low and fond enough that Jason feels uncomfortable listening in a whole new way. “_True._”

“_Enjoy your new toy, husband._” Her voice moves his direction, and Jason feels safe enough to risk a small glance up at her. She’s clothed again, at least as clothed as any of them ever get. Her skin’s flushed, though, lips redder than they were when she came in. “_Try not to let him gut you right away; it’d be disappointing._”

“_As you wish, my Khaleesi._”

Adeline vanishes outside after a last narrow-eyed look, the flap of the tent falling shut behind her. Jason hears the pad of footsteps opposite, and turns his head to look up exactly in time to get a massive eyeful of _dick _not more than an arm’s length away.

He yelps in shock, jerks back and pretty much only succeeds in falling over as his balance fails, tipping him over onto the cloth floor.

Slade sinks into an easy crouch next to him, _very _naked and apparently not caring even a little, not a damn thing covering any of his skin. Jason glares through the flush he can feel on his cheeks, trying to keep his eyes firmly fixed on his captor’s face and absolutely not anywhere near that limp cock hanging between his thighs. That _big, _limp cock. (Gods, what the hell does it look like when it’s erect?)

The bastard is smirking at him, too.

He flinches back when one big hand reaches for his head, but he's got nowhere to go and no limbs to do it with, so there's no stopping it. Fingers hook under the edge of the gag, pulling it out of his mouth with a rough yank and leaving it to hang around his neck. The first breath without the lingering faint taste of horse at the back of it feels incredibly sweet, and for just a second he doesn't even care about anything else.

Then, above him, Slade asks, "_Thirsty?_"

Jason _almost_ responds, just on automatic. But lifting his head gives his brain a moment to process. Maybe it's a trap, or test, or hell, maybe Slade just doesn't speak a different language. It doesn't matter; it's better for _him_ if they keep thinking he can't speak Dothraki.

He just glares instead, and Slade makes an amused sound. Then, in almost perfect Common, repeats, "Are you thirsty?"

Okay, so that’s that question answered. Slade can speak the Common Tongue. But, he either doesn't think Jason can speak Dothraki, or he's playing along with him pretending not to. For the sake of his own sanity, Jason's going to go with the former.

He works his tongue carefully around his mouth, before gritting out, "Yes."

He is. The gag soaked up all the moisture in his mouth, and he hasn't had any kind of a drink since the battle. He's hungry, and thirsty, and sore, and embarrassed, and royally _pissed off_. If this is some kind of trick question, Jason's going to fucking bite him, he swears to the gods.

"Mm. I could fix that." His gaze sweeps to the side, along the length of where Jason's lying. "If you let me get all that armor off you without a fight."

He stiffens. Remembers, sharply, his earlier suspicions about why he might have been taken. Like _hell_ is he letting anyone take his armor without a fight. He's not going to be some… some _toy_.

Jason bares his teeth, considering how hard he might be able to at least bring his knees up, even if he can't kick with his legs tied like they are. "Try it." He picks one of the Dothraki insults from the marketplaces out of his memory, and growls the syllables of, "_Sea-drinking nag_."

Surprise flickers through Slade's eyes. Then he snorts, shaking his head. "Alright, boy. Keep it on if you want.” He stands, and Jason quickly yanks his gaze away before he gets another way-too-close view of the cock between his thighs. “You might change your mind tomorrow, though. We’ll move on when my men are done taking what they want from the dead; it’ll be a long walk.”

He can hear the footsteps moving away from him, then back. Looking at the floor is safer than trying to watch him. “What? You’re not just going to fling me over your saddle again?”

There’s no answer except another low, amused sound.

Then there’s a hand grabbing the collar at his neck, fingers pressing in between the leather and his skin as he tries to jerk away. All he succeeds in doing is pulling it tight against the front of his throat and nearly choking himself. He gasps, squirming as something rough gets pushed into the gap and then pulled through, and it takes him a second to recognize the rough scratch against his skin as rope.

Slade let's go. The sensation of the rope stays though, tugs lightly once then falls more slack against his skin. Jason wiggles far enough onto his back that he can crane his neck around and look.

He's tied to the damn post. Hooked to it by the collar like he's some kind of dog. Son of a—

"I’m going to get some food, boy. If you decide you want some, let me know.”

Jason’s hands curl into fists, and he glares up at the little twist of a smirk Slade’s wearing. Glares at his back when he turns and strides away, not bothering to do more than throw some kind of cloth around his waist before he ducks out and into the night.

Oh yeah, this is going to be all kinds of fun.


End file.
